All Lives End, All Hearts are Broken
by LyricalSinger
Summary: In a perfect world, they would have had more time. Note: This is an AU where John Watson and Greg Lestrade are in a relationship. If you don't like M/M, please do not read (though I guarantee there is absolutely nothing explicit in the story at all!).


A/N: With this story, I've gone in a direction I never thought I would: John Watson and Greg Lestrade are in a relationship and have been for a while. The title is actually taken from the episode "A Scandal in Belgravia"; Mycroft says these words to Sherlock after identifying Irene Adler's body in St. Bart's morgue.

Thanks to sarajm for keeping my verb tenses in line!

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All Lives End, All Hearts Are Broken

The first time John Watson had seen Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, the ex-Army doctor had been sitting in the world's ugliest - though surprisingly comfortable - faded red chair, contemplating becoming flatmates with a man he'd just met. He could be forgiven for having overlooked the D.I's obvious qualities that time.

The next time John saw Greg Lestrade, he had been dragged to a crime scene by same potential flatmate and was being talked over by Sherlock and an obviously frustrated and exhausted D.I. Head swivelling between the two men, John couldn't help but think as he eyed the policeman, "Hmmm … he's quite fit."

Soon enough, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard's finest, had a new title … at least to John. He was now the "Silver Fox". A tall, good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and soulful brown eyes, John found him extremely attractive and was curious to learn more about him.

For his part, Greg _had_ noticed the shorter blond when he showed up at 221B to plead for Sherlock's assistance with the serial suicides, but he was a bit too pre-occupied to do more than send a nod in the other man's direction while remaining focused on Sherlock.

It took several months and a couple of encounters before John and Greg got together at the pub one Friday night for a pint, or three or four. A friendship quickly developed between the two men – a friendship that may have started because of Sherlock and his insanities, but one that endured because of shared interests and an attraction that remained unspoken.

It was only after Greg's divorce and Sherlock's supposed death that their friendship grew into something more. After Greg's divorce, John took it upon himself to be there for the broken man, even to the point of installing him in his bedroom for a week, while he took the sofa at 221B. John was the one who cleared out Greg's things from his marital abode and helped him settle into his new flat.

Then came Sherlock's suicide. It took a while, but John finally forgave Greg for what he saw as a betrayal of his friendship with the now-deceased genius. John was grieving for his friend and lashed out at everyone, including Greg. But the D.I. was a persistent bugger and he was not going to give up on John or their friendship. Instead, he made himself a nuisance: calling the grieving doctor daily, dropping by with takeaway and bad movies, providing a shoulder to lean on, someone to rant at, a warm body to cling to when the black dog showed up.

Hardship can bring out the worst in people, but it can also bring to the fore feelings that lie hidden for far too long. One evening, about a year after the events on the roof of St. Bart's, John and Greg were sitting in the living room of 221B with case files spread out across the coffee table, the floor, and the sofa. It had taken a while, but thanks to persistence, some top-notch detective work and, to be honest, a little bit of luck, it had finally been proven that the World's Only Consulting Detective was not a fake and that Richard Brook was nothing more than an alter-ego of James Moriarty, a psychopath with a personal vendetta against Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's reputation was restored, Greg's position in NSY was assured – and had come with apologies and a pay raise – and John was finally breathing easy. The two men were gathering up all the papers that had taken over their lives for the past months, content in the knowledge that all was as right as could possibly be in their little corner of London.

They both reached for the same folder and as their hands touched, John felt an electric shock run up his arm and a growing warmth settle in his soul. He was attracted to Greg, and had been for a while, but he had never said anything because he didn't want to ruin the friendship they had found. Looking over at Greg, the doctor was surprised to see a pair of brown eyes, filled with an emotion that John was afraid to name, staring into his.

A swallow, a hum, a soundless query and a nod was all it took for two friends to become something more. From that moment, Greg and John were no longer just friends; now they were lovers as well as best friends. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle. John's steadfastness balanced Greg's anxiety; Greg's gentle nature help cool John's often quick temper. They were different, but the same and together they were whole. They were _good_ for each other.

They survived Sherlock's return and soon the Consulting Detective came to see what everyone else already knew – John and Greg belonged together. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock was fine with it. Greg and John travelled between 221B and the D.I.'s flat near NSY, Sherlock turned 221C into his own lab space, and everyone co-existed quite harmoniously.

Years passed and John and Greg grew more and more in love. They were never very demonstrative about their affections, but it was obvious in the small ways they cared for each other. The cold and damp wreaked havoc with John's shoulder so on rainy days, Greg always made sure to have the paracetamol and the hot water bottle ready and waiting for John as he returned home. When working on a difficult case, Greg often forgot to take care of his body; food and drink became secondary to solving the crime. At those times, John always made sure to have plenty of healthy and easy-to-eat snacks for Greg to grab on his way out the door. Water bottles were always sitting in the fridge and once the case was done, John made sure to have Greg's favourite dishes on the table when his partner finally made it in the front door.

Their love was shown in gentle teasing, the squeeze of a shoulder, a kiss on the nape of a neck, and cuddles on the sofa while watching bad reality TV.

Unfortunately, fate decided to intervene one day in May.

It was a stupid accident, the kind you see every day: a yellow light, an inattentive driver, a young woman pushing a pram and two middle-aged men in the midst of crossing the road. John saw what was happening in the instant before it actually occurred. Releasing Greg's hand, he sprang forward and managed to push the woman one way and the pram the other. Unfortunately, that left him in the direct path of the car.

As Greg stopped the baby carriage rolling towards him, he heard the squeal of tires, screams from the passers-by and a dull thud. Though terrified to do so, Greg looked over towards the scene of the accident. The car was stopped, its hood crumpled with the force of the impact and the driver-side airbag had deployed. The young woman was struggling to her feet with the aid of a bystander and she was looking around frantically for her baby. She was bleeding from a head wound but seemed steady on her feet, so Greg didn't worry too much for her.

His concern was that he couldn't see John. Hurrying over towards the car, shocked and confused, Greg saw the body of his love crumpled on the ground about ten feet from where he'd last been standing. A crowd was gathering and Greg pushed and shoved his way through, screaming "Call 999!"

Falling to his knees at the side of his partner, Greg could barely make out John's features for the blood covering his face, and the man was barely breathing. The policeman had seen the end results of far too many accidents over the years and this was one of the worst. John was bleeding profusely from a head wound and Greg certainly didn't need a doctor to tell him that several of John's ribs had been crushed due to the impact with the car.

Stretching out his arm, fingers trembling, Greg laid his hand gently on John's cheek. Leaning in close, he whispered, "John. John! Can you hear me? John!"

A groan came from the body beside him and after a few endless moments, eyelids opened and blue eyes dulled with pain stared up at him.

"Is the baby safe?" whispered John, before he coughed and moaned again, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. _Internal bleeding for sure_ , thought Greg as a feeling of cold fear passed through his body.

"Oh, love," answered Greg, "yes, everyone's safe, thanks to you. How about you? The ambulance is on its way, so just hold on, yeah?"

"Don't think … I can," answered John. "Everything hurts, and my head … I can't … hurts to breathe and …," his voice trailed away.

"John!" yelled Greg as he tapped the doctor's cheek firmly with his fingers. "Wake up, John. You can't leave me. You've got to promise me that you won't leave me. You'll be fine, I promise, love. Just hang on."

"Sweetheart," whispered John as he forced his eyelids to open, "I'm so sorry." Tears formed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, leaving tracks through the blood that covered his face.

"Don't John," answered Greg, tears flowing from his own eyes. "Nope, not gonna happen; I won't let it. Hang on, John. Just hang on!"

Turning to the crown, Greg yelled, "Where is the ambulance?" A young man leaned over and said, "Ambulance and police are on their way. Is there anything I can do?"

"Just move back. Please, just move back," begged Greg, as he slipped out of his jacket and spread it gently over John's chest in a futile attempt to bring some comfort to his love.

On hearing the broken voice of the grey-haired man kneeling on the ground, the crowd moved away, some to focus on the young woman and the baby, a couple to check on the driver of the wayward car and everyone else to stand quietly on the sidelines.

Turning his focus back to his partner, it was obvious to Greg that John would not last much longer. His breathing had become rapid and shallow, his complexion was pale and he was losing too much blood, too fast, from the still-bleeding head wound.

The doctor was trying to hold on, for the sake of his friend, his partner, his love, but it was too hard. John knew he was dying and there was nothing anyone could do.

"Greg," he whispered, "hold me, please."

Bending down over the broken man lying on the cold asphalt, Greg's tears dropped off his chin onto the chest of the man he loved more than life itself. "John, I don't want to hurt you," he said as he brushed his thumb across the beloved features of his partner.

John huffed what could have been a laugh and murmured, "Doesn't matter, love. I'm going, and I want you to hold me." Greg sniffed wetly and settling himself down on the ground, he raised John's head and rested it on his legs. A moan accompanied the movement, but John managed to give a bit of a smile as if to say _it's all right; I'm good_.

Greg leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of his doctor's nose before resting his forehead against John's. Grasping his head gently, Greg swept his thumbs across John's cheekbones and whispered, "Oh, love … this is wrong. We should have years and years to grow old and crotchety together. What am I going to do without you? But I understand, love. Don't stay for me, if you can't; if it's too hard. I won't ask you to … but I'll miss you every day of my life and you'd better be waiting for me when it's my time, okay?"

A quiet hum and a gentle smile was the only response as John's breathing slowed and then stopped.

The crowd of sombre bystanders could only watch the scene unfold in front of them. Looking over at the grey-haired man who seemed to have aged at least 20 years in the last few minutes, more than one wiped away a tear and hoped that someone would love them as much, and miss them as much, when it was their time to go.


End file.
